“Roberts,” Jackson said, unamused.
“Aye?”
“Leave before I shoot you between the eyes.”
Roberts—the windsucker—saluted. “Good luck, Your Grace.”
Jackson didn’t dismiss the well wishes. Not when he’d need all the luck in London after he told his mother that the house of Grandfellow—a royal title and estate that went back to the beginning of the fourteenth century—was about to add a locksmith’s daughter to their noble history.
Chapter Three
Anna left theblue house on Cleveland Row, her hood pulled up as much to protect her cheeks from the chilled, night air as to give herself a moment of privacy before coming face to face withhimagain. To think the man Mrs. Dove-Lyon had ordered her to marry was Jackson Cole.
Jackson.
As handsome and wild as ever. Angled jaw, ebony hair, eyes that captured and held. Though there was a hard edge in his gaze now, as if the boy who’d always been smiling and laughing over some silly joke or prank had forgotten humor along with his adolescence.
And his dress... The boy who’d once jeered at the ridiculous flounce and “bird colors” meant for lords of his station hadn’t looked a stitch out of place in his jonquil silk waistcoat and his darted, emerald dress coat that narrowed at the waist. And those skintight breeches. Anna’s cheeks warmed remembering how the moleskin had molded to his powerful thighs.
He’d always held a superior seat, and the riding had clearly lent to a proud male physique. A man who had grown into the kind of lord the previous duke had demanded.
Old hurt cracked the edges around her heart, the ache agony.
The hand signals from their childhood told her he hadn’t completely disregarded their past, but six years was a long time to change. She would know more than anyone.
With her brother’s ascension to a peer of the realm and her inevitable launch into society by association, many areas of her life were improved, including her wardrobe, her manners... and her right hook. Unfortunately forHis Grace, part of her agreement with her brother to suffer through comportment lessons had been the opportunity to sit in on William’s private boxing lessons.
His Grace.
Anna stopped there, on the dark street, her chest squeezing. If Jackson was now the duke, then his father—that horrible man—was gone.
Relief and empathy swirled an emotional storm inside her. The previous duke had been a cold, exacting man, never more so than where his eldest son had been concerned. But death left holes in a person’s heart, no matter how cruel or irresponsible a father may have been.
Every man had their sins.
So did Jackson. Anna would not condemn the son for his father’s.
The boy she’d known all those years ago had fallen prey to his own.
Her gloved fingers curled into a tight fist until the soft leather whined. No matter how Jackson’s acceptance would have her brother’s vowels shredded and burned, the good Duke of Grandfellow would win no favors from her. Not until he begged her forgiveness.
Jackson waited inthe shadow of a tall maple, the chiaroscuro of the nearby gas lamp throwing everything in stark relief and all but hiding his presence from anyone walking along the path that led deeper into the park.
The clip of booted heels echoed down the way. Short strides, hurried.
Jackson smiled. Anna would never deign to wear something as proper as ladies’ slippers or to walk at anything less than a gallop.
He’d been apprised of her brother’s bestowed title; Jackson was expected to know the width and breadth of the aristocratic comings and goings even outside of his role as an agent for the Crown. An annoying expectation for any peer to avoid uncomfortable faux pas in society. The way Prinny wished to bestow titles on every soldier and saint within the empire, a duke must be constantly informed.
But Jackson could not argue the bestowment of William Greene, an officer who’d taken a bullet to the chest and somehow survived. Wellington himself had described the man’s heroism and grit to the Prince Regent:
The man took the iron meant for me. Wounded, bleeding out, Officer Greene got back to his feet, released his saber, and cut down the shooter before he’d finished loading his next shot. The man is a beast, and I thank the good Lord every day he fights on our side.
Jackson had attended the meeting, his work with the Home Secretary requiring him to stay acquainted with any developments on the front lines across the North Sea to better his knowledge of any enemies who might find themselves on soil closer to home.
The gushing recount of Greene’s heroism hadn’t surprised Jackson. Both Greene siblings were formidable—indomitable in their personal definitions of what was right. Not even theproposal to run away and become the wife of a duke’s heir could entice one to betray their moral fiber.
The footfalls suddenly ceased.
